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VENTURES 

IN 

VERSE 

BY 

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BUFFALO 



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Copyright, 1892 
By Charles Shepard Parke 



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PAULS PRINT 
BUFFALO 



A SYLVAN CEREMONY 

" Kneel," whispered the breeze. 

On wistful knees 
In the swaying grass I sank, 

While, all around, 

A soft choral sound 
Swelled from bower and bank. 

Two slender blows, 

And I arose 
Of sordid aims bereft ; 

By the accolade 

Of a green grassblade 
Ennobled and enfeoffed. 

Now am I lord 

Of weald and sward, 
Fellow to leaf and flower ! 

Brook, bee, and bird 

Have passed the word 
That owns me from this hour ! 



APRIL FOOLING 

"Whanne that April with his shoures 

sote " — 
O Chaucer, Chaucer, when those words 

you wrote 
You little dreamt that far across the sea 
A new and broader Britain was to be. 
Whose April, not content to "perce the 

droughte 
Of March" and drive the blust'ring fellow 

out, 
To summon the birds and buds, and cleanse 

the way 
Against the coming of his sister May, 
Doth often backward reach, as now, and 

seize 
In sport the skirt of Winter as he flees. 
Fling out the shred athwart the soft'ning 

sky, 
And almost make us doubt if Spring be 

nigh ! 



A SPRING-DAY BILL OF FARE 

BREAKFAST 

A Sip of Morning Dew. 

A Checkerberry or two. Young Leaves 

with Honey Spread. 

[Serve while the dawn is red.] 

LUNCHEON 

Violets from the Dell. 

Watercress as well. White Ends of New - 

pulled Grass. 

Chips of Sassafras. 

Dessert — A Sniff of that Breeze right 

from the Orchard Trees. 

Who after these craves dinner 
Is a ffourmand and a sinner. 



OVERHEARD IN AUGUST 

The song of Kissisqua, the brooklet, the 

silver-toned babbler, 
Rehearsing the gossip of rushes to broad 

pebbly reaches, 
Anon lightly telling of flower loves far in 

the glen. 

The song of the westerly breeze, full of 
sweet meadow thoughts, 

Orchard airs, garden fancies, fresh mem'ries 
of plenty afield. 

With soft undertone of lament for the 
passing of summer. 

The song of the cloudlet whose shadow 
slips down the green vale — 

An exquisite strain, that just floats to the 
far edge of hearing ; 

A measure so fine that its melody dies at a 
look. 



ON MURRAY HILL 

Mount Morris, N. V. 

Over my head the whispering leaves, 
Over the leaves the fair young moon, 

Over the moon the silent stars, 

Piercing earth's night with their myriad 
noon. 



IN THE RYE-FIELD 

O reaper there, pray tell me, where 
Goes all your golden grain ? 

" Why, some to mill, and some to still. 
And some into the ground again." 



•HH* 



FUGACITY 

Quick, quick, my pen and paper, 

For here's a thought — 
A bright one, with a merry caper — 

It must be caught ! 

Ah, now the elfin sprite 

I'll bring to book ! 
A captive trim in black and white, 

That all may look 

And note its pretty paces : — 

Alack a day ! 
The wary imp, by all the Graces, 

Has skipped away ! 



GIRLISH LAUGHTER 

O, chide her laughter not; 

'Tis sweeter far, I wot — 
So natural, so joyous, and so free — 

Than prim or artful titter, 

Or timid, tight-laced twitter, 
Or delicately simpering te-hee. 

Those swelling notes bespeak 
Young blood and sound physique, 

A conscience clear, an open heart and 
whole. 
They flood the place with gladness, 
Submerging care and sadness. 

And lave the tender edges of the soul ! 



A TAYTOTALLER'S EFFOOSION 

Av all daintie dhrinks, 

Shure the foinest, met'inks. 
Not aven axceptin' Tokay, 

Is the koind that's done up 

In sawsur an' cup. 
Oi mane an infoosion av tay. 

Now some tay is Oolong, 

An' some is too sthrong, 
An' some's loike a whiff av owld hay. 

Some's bitther, some's flat, 

Some's wake, an' all that. 
Oi calls thhn illoosions av tay. 

But the rale-ginnuoine- 

Nonpareel-supperfoine- 
Set-'em-up-from-beyant-the-broad-say- 

Limmon -sugar-or-crame- 

Wid-a-shmell-loike-a-dhrame — 
Thafs Nora's infoosion av tay ! 



AUNT PHEBE VISITS THE CITY 

It's skerce a week I've been in taown, 

A-shoppin' an' a-chinnin', 
An' O so busy runnin' raoun' ; 

An' yit I am beginnin' 
To feel a leetle homesick like, 

To wish't I was away 
From this great, hustlin', bustlin' place 

An' back to ol' Nunda. 

Yer city streets is straight an' wide, 

An' smoother' n aour barn floor. 
They's ev'rythin', an' lots beside, 

Fer sale to Barnum's store. 
Ye've tra-la keers an' bullyvards — 

But jes' give me, I say, 
or sorrel Dan an' the road that runs 

'Tween aour haouse an' Nunda! 

Yer Buff 'lo park is very fair ; 

In summer it's reel pretty. 
A-snuffin' of the breezes there 

I most fergit the city. 
But, my ! it ain't a sukkumstance 

To the wavin' fields o' hay. 
An' 'tater-lots, an' woodsy hills 

That lies araound Nunda ! 

Ye've 



Ye've here a glary 'lectric light, 

An' there a dribblin' faountain. 
I s'pose they cost a nawful sight, 

But, la ! they ain't wuth caountin' 
Agin' the gigglin' brook that turns 

Aour mill acrost the way, 
An' the moon that shines like a new milk- 
pan 

In the sky above Nunda ! 



AUNT PHEBE RETURNS HOME 

Well, here I'm back to ol' Nunda, 

Accordin' to my wishin's ; 
Yit I can't settle daown, some way, 

Into the ol' conditions, 
I'm all the while reel restless like, 

From thinkin', don't ye know, 
Of what good times they must be havin' 

Up to Buffalo. 

They's alwuz somethin' new in taown — 

A lectur', book, or sich ; 
An' neighbors keeps a-droppin' 'raoun' 

To tea an' take a stitch. 
But here, it's no use talkin', things 

Is everlastin' slow — 
Leastways, that's haow they 'pear to seem 

Sence I's to Buffalo. 

This Nunda road jes' makes me groan ; 

or Dan has got the heaves ; 
I hain't no book but Natur's own — 

An' naow thafs short o' leaves. 
The brook is froze; the mill-wheel's dry ; 

The moon, fer all I know, 
Is common cheese. I wish't I hadn't 

Went to Buffalo ! 



AUTUMN SONG 

The melancholy days are come, the sad- 
dest of the year, 
"When wheat has wholly lost its head, and 

corn is on its ear; 
When " Mr. Murphy" scans his dungeon 

bin with starting eye, 
And life is just a horrid grind to barley, 

oats and rye ; 
"When quakes the ruddy apple, quite be 

cider self with fright, 
And scenting roasts the turkey seeks a 

higher roost at night ; 
"When the boy of small size large sighs 

heaves, and dreams — the greedy 

sinner — 
Of a land where Cook is queen and life 

one long Thanksgiving dinner. 



A SONG FOR THE SEASON 

While returning our thanks for the good 
things we've got, 

Let us gratefully dwell on some things we 
have not; 

On the blessed immunities brought by- 
November. 

Of such it were easy a score to remember. 

Lo, is not the last plaguy house-fly now 

dead, 
To the joy of mankind, from sweet babe to 

bald head ? 
And how restful these nights when no 

insect pipes shrill 
Of his call in relation to " that httle bill." 

True, the butterfly's gone, and departed 

the bird; 
But the swart street musician no longer is 

heard, 
Nor the huckster, apprising the town, 

through his nose, 
Of stale bargains in " Awringes ! Appuls ! 

Tato-o-oes ! " 

Thus 



Thus the catalogue each for himself may 
extend, 

Till of sweet deprivations there seemeth no 
end. 

Then up, all ye favored ones, stir the dull 
ember, 

And welcome immunity-bringing Novem- 
ber! 



MY "MACKINAW" 

Farewell, my faithful Mackinaw, 

Farewell ! It is October, 
When proper men put off the straw 

And on the derby sober. 

Farewell ! Two frolic seasons through 

Thou' St been a merry thatch ; 
But scorching sun and stiffening dew 

Have done thee. Now the match ! 

Farewell ! T' were better thou shouldst burn 
Than crown some graceless bummer. 

I'll save thy cinders in an urn 

Marked, " Ashes of the Summer." 

Farewell ! For I'm a proper man. 
And so, the match — But stay ! 

Come shine or shower, old hat of tan, 
I'll wear thee one more day ! 



ANSWERED 

I stood on the sounding shore, 

I questioned the furious sea : 

** O, why in white anger uptossed ? ' 

And out of the wild uproar 

The answer came hissing to me : 

" Because I'm incessantly crossed ! 



A WORD TO THE SOUR 

When your seat you resign 
To a lady, don't lower, 
Or speak in a whine. 

When your seat you resign 
Let the action be fine. 
In politeness is power. 

When your seat you resign 
To a lady, donH lower. 



*HH* 



OF MY LADY 

My Lady's smile it is the day; 

Now bright and gay, 
Now grave, now fading soft away. 

My Lady's hair is a stream of gold. 

Refined; down-rolled 
In rippling waves of wealth untold. 

My Lady's brow is a snowy plain. 

One slender vein 
Divides its calm expanse in twain. 

My Lady's eye is a well of blue, 

Wherein I view 
The image of her lover true. 

My Lady's cheek is a garden fair, 

A garden where 
The rose and lily blossom e'er. 

My Lady's mouth — O heart ! thy fate 

Interminate 
Is hid within that ruby gate. 



MY HEART UNQUIET IS 

Sweet Summer rules in emerald peace 
O'er river, field, and glade. 

But O, my heart unquiet is, 
Because of a maid. 

The ancient hills with verdure fresh 

How beauteously arrayed. 
But Oy my heart unquiet is, 

Because of a maid. 

I note the bird's eve-song, the dew 
Of mom on leaf and blade. 

But O, my heart unquiet is, 
Because of a maid. 



ON FINDING HER COMB 

O foolish trinket to forsake 

The charge that has been thine ! 

I'd give my all, without an ache, 
Could I but call it mine ! 

To nestle in a maiden's hair, 

To guard her gleaming tresses, — 

"Who would not welcome that sweet care 
A sluggish heart possesses ! 

Then hie thee back, thou vagrant comb, 
Fair Rachel's locks to grace, 

Nor ever dare again to roam 
From such a resting-place ! 



UNFULFILLMENT 

A life just flowering into womanhood — 
A glorious young life, pure, strong, and 
free. 

Elate and purposeful, resolved to be 
And do, enthusiastic for the good. 

Ah, but the changeful years, the lures, the 
stress 
Of circumstance ! Lo, many lives have 
passed 
From that proud phase, only to bend, at 
last. 
Unto the brazen yoke of worldliness. 



A PASTEL 

To one within a garden wandering, 
And dreamily demanding, right and left, 
Saying, " What flower can with Her com- 



pare 



? " 



None made reply. 

But, as he mused along, 
With casual step, he felt anon a light, 
Detaining touch upon his sleeve. He 

paused. 
And looking down, saw thorned unto his 

side. 
Heart-high, a perfect budding crimson rose. 

With one elate beyond the garden passing 
Went the sole flower which could with 

Her compare ; 
Went a perfect budding crimson rose. 



THE MILL-WHEEL 

From the German 

Down in a deep, cool valley, 
Where turns a mill-wheel slow, 

Once lived my best beloved, 
Who left me long ago. 

Her troth with me she plighted, 
Gave me a ring — in vain ! 

That troth was hghtly broken, 
The ring, too, went in twain. 

I would I were a minstrel. 
To roam the wide world o'er, 

And sing my song of sadness 
As I passed from door to door. 

I would I were a trooper 
Far in the bloody fight, 

Or by the embers lying 
Upon the field at night. 

Ah, when I hear the mill-wheel 
I know not what I will — 

I long to cease from living, 
For then it would be still. 



A WISH 

O me, what would I not give for one 
look (so he said) 

On this fair world through the far- 
dreaming eyes of yon maid ! 



WITH LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY 

*' Ladder to Heaven," some call it. 

Heaven for me, O Girl, 

Is just as high as your heart. 

I plant this ladder ; I dare to climb. 



TO 



I call thee cousin of the rose, 
Related to the lily, 
Having with the violet 
And marigold sweet kinship. 
And for this I know it : 
Lip, eye, brow, hair show it. 



A VALENTINE 

Dearest maiden, in verse — 
[Rose, tell ker the rest.') 

Dearest maiden, in verse 

I fain would rehearse — 
Ah, have you not guessed ? 

Dearest maiden, in verse — 
[Rose, tell her the rest /) 



THE BUTTON SLIPPER 

My Lady her foot 

In a sHpper hath put 
So dainty it sets me a-sighing : 

Heigh-ho ! Well-a-day ! 

But off and away 
With a shpper that needeth no tying. 



THE LIGHT OF LIGHTS 

O, a glorious thing is the Hght of the sun, 
Bringing life, and joy, and love. 

O, a noble thing, when the day is done, 
Is the light of the stars above. 

And a welcome thing is the light whose 
gleams 

Betoken the journey's end. 
But the light of lights is the light that beams 

For me in the eye of a friend. 



^H* 



THOUGHTS ON THE LAST LINES 
OF TENNYSON'S " ULYSSES " , 

To strive, in all my strength, unceasingly. 
With that low self which, counseled by the 

world, 
Doth ever plot to overcome my soul. 

To seek, unswervingly, the highest truths, 
The noblest friendships, and the purest joys, 
Despising naught, and hoping everything. 

To find that peace which fills the Universe, 
That rest whereof they only can partake 
Whose faith and trust are with the Infinite. 

And not to yield — ah, feeble is this flesh ! 
Yet, if I ask it of th' Eternal, He 
Will make me strong to hold and even to 
gain. 



INFINITE TRUST 

Come poverty and want ; 
Come sudden sickness, pain; 
Come stealthy, fell disease ; 
Come dull, decrepit age. 
Come envious, biting tongues, 
Deceit, misjudgment, hate; 
Come loss of fame or place, 
Of dear or dearest friend. 
Come hopes' decay, come all 
The undiscerning world 
Deems worst in circumstance. 
Lo, I have that within 
Shall nerve my soul to face 
The whole dread catalogue, 
To meet them with a song ! 



The Universe is pictured in the clod : 
The voice of the cricket is the voice of God. 

The lowly ant toils out her little year 
Directed by no earthly engineer. 

Rare secrets in the spider's web are spun, 
Inviolate between herself and One. 



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